The Adventure of Blind Man's Bluff
by hawkeye-pierce08
Summary: Sherlock Holmes' daughter solves a mystery through her eyes, or lack of... Chapter 10 is up, and I'm requesting some constructive criticism.
1. Preface

A Note Before Reading

This story is my own work of fiction, although the title is actually taken from a Sherlock Holmes episode (starring Ronald Howard; made in 1955 or so). History has been moved around a bit, and the story itself is set somewhere in the late 1940's. Eventually, I'll write the prequel to it, but right now I'm just being to lazy.

Enjoy,

Eye of the hawk

P.S. Thanks to ewa for reminding me to add this little note. Now, on with your scheduled programming…


	2. Prologue

Prologue- A Scandal in London, England

* * *

To my father, she was always _the _woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. Even in society, she was _the _woman. Of course, nobody knew who he was talking about, and for some time, neither did I.

It never occurred to me when I was young that _the _woman was my mother. I can not recall her very well, as she left us when I was still a baby. She did leave me a picture like in the movies, but unfortunately, I've never been able to see it.

I was born just outside of London in a small part of the country known as Sussex Downs in the year of nineteen hundred and thirty to parents Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. They were an odd couple, if I really think on it. Sherlock was English, Irene was American, which in those times, was quite uncommon.

My mother left only a few days after I was born. She never explained why, but I believe she didn't want the burden of an illegitimate child. My father of course, even with all of his analytical and detective work, had no clue as to raising a baby, much less a baby girl like me, but he had no choice. This sparked the year long search for Irene Adler, going to the far ends of the world to find her.

Don't misunderstand me, I love my father, and he loves my mother and I, even though he doesn't care to show it. Only a day after my mother left, he went searching for her, using every available power he had. But in the end, his sleuthing skills were of little use, and, disheartened, he gave up his search in New York.

The moment Sherlock Holmes stepped into New York City, he hated London and everything about it, save for his friends and only known relative. He despised the city with a passion, and will tell you of it if he gets the notion to.

By the time I was a year old, we were fully British-American, which is slightly confusing for somebody who's only been to England once in her entire lifetime. New York was our new home, and my father intended on staying there, no matter what happened. He did not want to return to England to face what he had lost.

The next year, my uncle Mycroft decided to leave as well. Apparently, his connexions in politics had run out, and he wanted a new start in a new government. Here he started his very own club instead of joining one, which is slightly against his usual character, but this story is an unusual one in itself.

I guess now that Mycroft is on the scene it would be wise to mention my name. Michelle Marie Holmes was an odd combination of names. Michelle is a combination of Mycroft and Sherlock, and originally spelled with a 'y'. To be honest, I don't understand the connexion. Marie was Uncle John's wife's name (which was actually Mary, but let's not argue on it.)

In any case, the year that I turned two (which if you do the math is 1932; try to stay with me here) things took a turn for the worse. Unbeknownst to anybody at the time, I had a disease which was later given the name Leber Congenital Amaurosis, which is basically a lack of vision at birth. At first, supposedly, my eyes responded well to light and brighter colors but in 1932 I became sick with Scarlet Fever and everything was lost. My vision slowly declined until eventually there was none left.

Of course, my father did not take the news well at all. Uncle John and Mycroft had to lock him in a room with nothing but books for a week after Deddy (my word for 'Daddy') nearly over-dosed on cocaine. It's always a terrible thing to learn that your father nearly killed himself because of something you did.

While my father was sick, I stayed in Mycroft's club, giving me my first taste of the British underground New York. Any slum who said 'poh-tah-toe' instead of 'poh-tay-toe' was shoved into the little nook that Mycroft called 'Little Britain'. I was especially drawn to the piano in the corner, to the left of the strange drunk man named Merle who mumbled about his favorite football player on Manchester United's team.

So it was the Little Britain that I grew up in. Everyday after school I would walk to the Club and play the piano for an hour before everybody became too drunk and things became dangerous. When I became old enough to be left alone for a few hours (which came rather quickly, I might add), I stayed at home and waited for Uncle John to call at four o'clock in the afternoon, even though it is already ten o'clock at night in England. I love my Uncle John.

By now, I'm guessing you want to know what it is to be blind. Well, the Merriam-Webster dictionary says the word means sightless, having less than 1/10 the normal vision range, having no regard or rational, and defective. Obviously, I don't like that last word. But what are words to you? Tiny pictures on a page?

Not to me. They're everything. The little bumps are my one-hundred and ninety three tickets to some island paradise in an unknown country somewhere in the Middle East amongst a band of thieves going for the Rajah's treasure.

One hundred and ninety three blank pages. To your eyes, at least. To really get to know a book, you need to feel it. Immerse yourself in it for hours on end until your fingers are bloody and callused from the work. That's what Braille is to me. It's how I feel when I read.

So, back to the story. Where was I…? Oh, yes, Uncle John. Now, when Deddy (Remember, that's my father) lived in England he had a flat-mate name Dr. John H. Watson. Since men have a hard time admitting things, I'll admit this for them: They were the best friends the world has ever known, in print too. Deddy went on adventures solving crimes and fighting bad guys and saving the day while Uncle John wrote about them and handed the copy to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who in turn published the stories in a magazine called _The Strand _Sir Doyle tells me occasionally over the phone that he is going to publish a book about me sometime, but he's not the most reliable person on Earth.

At any rate, my story doesn't necessarily begin here. In fact, it begins around my sixteenth birthday. To the world, I'm a very small, round-backed teenager with crooked feet. But that's going to change. I'm about to become a whole lot bigger in the eyes of the world…

* * *

That's the prologue. Unfortunately, this one's going to be a very long story, since it's already taking up over 17 pages in a notebook (both sides of the pages too!). I've decided to write it backwards to save on the length but I don't think that's going to work. I probably won't continue unless I get atleast five reviews for the prologue and the first chapter, so review, review, review, and enjoy! 


	3. The Dying Detective

Chapter 1-The Dying Detective

* * *

To be perfectly honest, I can't remember how the adventure itself starts. I can't recall any precise moment in time when the story officially begins. But every story needs a beginning. The start is often more important than the journey, or some other fable nonsense. 

I guess I'll begin at four o'clock in the afternoon one fall day around 1946 or so. Deddy, who instead of being a private detective like in his stories turned to regular book work, was still down at the police station solving 'cross-word puzzles,' as he calls them. Obviously, he missed his old job, and to be frank, I missed the adventurous Sherlock Holmes as well.

Nearly every day I sat on the sofa in the middle of the parlor with the telephone to my left, waiting for the daily mail from Uncle John. For some reason, he gets a strange urge to tell me about art galleries that he goes to or a play that he's recently seen. On occasion, he'll tell me of the new staging of 'Hamlet' three or four times a week. I guess that's why I love him so. He's more of the grandfather Deddy won't tell me about.

So I was slightly surprised on this particular fall day in 1946 or so when, instead of the phone ringing, the door opened, and two sets of feet strolled in. The first thing I noticed was the scent. Both were familiar, one more so than the other.

The first was the smell of pipe tobacco and chemical acid. Deddy set down the briefcase full of 'cross-word puzzles' and hung his coat on the rack as I shuffled closer to him. Then the second scent became prevalent. Pastry sugar and cheap wine.

"Uncle John!" I nearly dove on top of the old man in excitement. The last time I had 'seen' him was when my father was sick, and even then, I have only a vague memory of him. As I was nearly squeezing the air of his lungs, a thought came to mind: Why is he here? What's the emergency?

I let go just as Uncle John was taking off his hat. My father had sat down in his favorite chair and lit a match. A few seconds later, the room smelled more like Mycroft's club than an actual home. But then again, most homes don't smell like sulfuric acid half of the time either.

"So, Watson, how did you manage to walk all the way to the precinct with that bad knee of yours? It's a long walk from outside of town." Deddy said, in between puffs on the cigarette. Deduction has always been a hobby of my fathers. Although sometimes it can get on ones nerves, it serves a valuable purpose in his line of work. Uncle John chuckled.

"I fear asking Holmes, but how did you know I walked from outside of town?" It sounded as if he knew what was coming next, like he'd heard it a thousand times before. (Of course, you probably want my father to say 'elementary', now.) I sat down next to Uncle John and rested my head on his shoulder as we both awaited his answer.

"Your shoe, Watson. You don't find very much red dirt in the middle of New York City. And besides, you wouldn't ride in a taxi cab even if your life depended on it. Then again, neither would I. Bloody cigarettes, they run out too quickly." Deddy smashed the old cigarette in an ashtray (cleverly stolen from Mycroft's club) and began cleaning the inside of a pipe. His chain smoking was an irritating habit, and we often argued on the subject but it was of little use.

"Holmes, one of these days that trick of yours is going to come back to haunt you. In any case, I haven't seen my favorite niece since she was, oh, that high, and we have a bit of catching up to do." I assumed that Uncle John was motioning how tall I was, but I was always taught never to assume, only to know and move on with it. I was never good at his deduction trickery.

I was about to say something when the door opened once more and my biological uncle Mycroft stepped into the room, bringing with him the annoying smell of automobile gas and subway grime. Mycroft was the only other person who had a key to get into the apartment that we stayed in. The odd thing was, Deddy didn't have a key to the Club, but then again, he didn't need it.

As the minutes ticked by, I began to realize that I was an uninvited guest in my own home. Something was wrong. It was a feeling in the air, apart from the greasy subway and pipe tobacco. Why was everybody here?

I sat for a few moments before my impatience became the better of me. Usually when I can't find anything to do I just play the piano, but something in the back of my mind told me that I needed to leave the room for some reason or another. Now, think. What would I need outside the room?

"Deddy, where's the violin?" The three of them were chattering back and forth like a flock of pigeons, not really caring where the conversation went or who was listening. I could understand how the constant verbal tennis matches could drive Mrs. Hudson out of her mind. My father stopped talking for a moment to think of where the last time the old violin was.

"Check the pantry; it might be on the table. But be careful, though, some of the bow strings came loose this morning." He sometimes showed more concern for the violin than when he's working on an extremely flammable experiment. Fearing for your life has become a normal emotion in our flat.

I began to stand up but my knees quickly gave way from the lack of balance. Most of the time I wear these goofy feeling braces over my ankles for stability, but not at home. I can't stand wearing them, so I don't. Solve one problem, create another. That's my line of work.

Uncle John caught me just as I landed on his bad knee. That one had to hurt. I didn't weigh very much for a girl my age, but I've heard the stories behind the wounded knee. He tells me over the phone nearly every time that it was wounded in some war in Afghanistan in the Middle East. I'd like to go to Afghanistan too, some day. Though, I wouldn't want to be shot in the process.

I gave standing another try, this time holding on to Uncle John's fingers. If it were just my father and I, Deddy would've let me fall over a number of times before I was finally on my feet. Don't get me wrong, though, he just thinks I need to do things for myself.

Finally, standing as tall as I could (which isn't very tall), I slowly shuffled my way over to the kitchen. If Deddy's analytical trickery was his science, memorizing the placement of things was mine. Nothing in the rooms is ever changed without notifying me beforehand. This saves tripping over everything.

In the kitchen, I strained my ear to hear what was going on in the last room. The pigeon chatter continued for a few minutes, with an occasional eruption of laughter thrown in, probably for theatrics. The three of them were surprisingly very suspicious together. It's bad enough when Mycroft is alone, but with Uncle John around, it felt as if tension could be cut with the violin bow.

If they were going to act for me, then I'll act for them. I pretended to forget the whole conversation and concentrated on finding the violin. Instantly, the conversation hushed to a dull buzz in the next room.

Now, it's a well known fact that the Holmes' family is naturally curious. Supposedly, it was my fathers' only known weakness in those overly-dramatized stories of his. I couldn't just sit (or stand) and wait for whatever was going to happen, happen. It would be a sin against my family's name.

So there I was, violin in one hand, bow in the other, with my ear nearly pressed against the kitchen wall. Their voices were barely audible.

"What time did he say to be there?" I couldn't tell who exactly was speaking. Being brothers, my father and Mycroft sound almost the same, once even tricking me into thinking I was in a room that echoed.

"Eight o'clock is what he said over the phone, at the Club." Mycroft handed my father the lighter that was promised to him more than a week ago. The one thing that I admire about my uncle is his ability to steal almost anything, including the instrument of my father's incessant chain smoking. For a moment, there was an argument as to giving the Zippo lighter back. (For your information, Zippo lighters were developed in 1933)

Once again, the scent of tobacco overpowered everything else, including my ability to concentrate on the conversation at hand. As you can tell, I can't stand the smoking. How Uncle John put up with it for so many years is beyond me.

I stepped into the room, violin held high. Playing the piano was actually my forte (That _was _a lame attempt at a joke, ignore it). Deddy was the one who played the violin for hours on end until your ears were about ready to bleed.

Deddy stood up and rummaged around in his pocket for something. Just as I was about to play something, the phone started shrieking. I really can't stand that blasted thing.

"Holmes…Hello, Arthur, how are you?...He's here, actually, would you like to speak with him?...Alright then…She's fine, she was just about to play a tune for us…That all?...Well, then, I'll talk to you soon. Yes, bye, Arthur…By-bye Arthur." With that last stuttered statement, he slammed the phone back down on the receiver.

"Was that Sir Doyle? How is the old bat these days?" I tried to lighten up the mood in the room with a joke, but it obviously wasn't taken as one. I've never actually met the infamous Arthur Conan Doyle, but Uncle John tells me he's quite the gentlemen. I have spoken on the phone with him a number of times though.

"He's fine. He said he was working on a new novel but it's very hard to believe a man like Doyle." Deddy was the only person I knew who didn't call him Sir Doyle. They weren't the very best of friends, obviously.

"Michelle, weren't you going to pl-" With that, my father was interrupted by series of racking coughs that have just gotten worse over the years. Nearly every time one of these spells ended, we got into a row over what the cause might be (It's the chain smoking, I'm pretty sure it is).

Uncle John stood and picked up the bag that he had with him. At times like these, when nobody bothers speaking, it's very hard to tell what's going on. I could only guess, contrary to what I've been taught since I was seven.

From what I could hear, Uncle John was looking for something in the bag. Things _clinked _together and it sounded as if something cracked. I wonder what's in the bag.

My father continued to cough as Uncle John stepped forward and did something that I'm pretty sure he's never done in his life beforehand: He gave Deddy an order.

"Stand still and take a deep breath. I'm not going to take 'no' for an answer. Now, stand still before I make you." I nearly dropped the violin. This whole story just keeps getting stranger and stranger. Even on the phone Uncle John wouldn't dare say anything like that.

After this point, the next few minutes were complete silence. Everybody was too afraid to make a sound. I was too afraid to move. As the seconds ticked by, my grip on the violin neck grew tighter and tighter until my palm began to ache. I guess this is what they mean by the term 'white-knuckled'.

Every so often I heard a slow, painful sigh, as if it almost hurt to breath. It must have been my father. At this moment, I was scared, almost terrified that something was wrong. Something had to be, or else this spur of the moment examination wouldn't last this long. As I was lost in thought, somebody's voice chimed in.

"Michelle…weren't you goi—going to play something-?" The whole sentence was so marred by random gags it was hard to make the whole thing out. Uncle John was busy putting away the instruments as Mycroft asked for the lighter back once again.

I don't think Deddy's going to be smoking any more tonight…

* * *

That's the first chapter. Suspenseful, isn't it? Good, I was hoping for that. Yes, it's true I failed to mention the fact that it does the Basil Rathbone stunt and drops everybody in the 40's. My bad, thank you for reminding me ewa. Chapter 2 will be up as soon as I can come up with something decent. Keep reading everybody! Remember, I won't continue unless I get at least 5 reviews! 


	4. Five Broken Threads

Chapter Two-Five Broken Threads

* * *

At 7:30 in the evening, the mood began to dim as everybody realized that the night was coming to a close. The conversations slowed to a dull murmur as drinks were being finished and the music's tempo began to drift into practically nothing.

By now, the awful scent of tobacco was gone. Toby (our cat) was annoying everybody by jumping into their laps at very inopportune moments. He didn't help Mycroft's allergies very much either.

The night was becoming increasingly dreary as a sullen rain began to pour outside. The constant tapping on the window was like driving nails into my brain. I can stand the rain about as much as I can stand the phone.

The clock rang out its normal tune as if to say 'All's well, nothing to worry about yet'. The impending sense of doom began to carve itself in the back of my head. On rainy days (or nights) it's very hard to be optimistic about anything, especially in New York City.

For a moment, all I could concentrate on was the ticking of the clock and how much it sounded like rain. The clock barked orders as to what time of the day it was, and the rain cried back its answer.

Then movement caught everybody's ear (or maybe their eyes, I'm not sure). Mycroft dropped Toby on his feet and stood up, drawing in a great breath as he stretched his arms. This was the cue for everybody else to stand and begin putting on hats and whatnot. I sat on the couch and pretended to be confused. (Suckers…)

"Where's everybody off to, then?" I snapped my fingers towards the ground to get the cat's short attention span. Deddy was buttoning a coat as he walked over to the bookcase. His footsteps seemed to echo alongside the now driving rain

"Mycroft has to be there when the Club closes and we need to find Watson a place to stay tonight." Deddy said as he pulled a book from the shelf. A moment later, a series of noises caught my ear. First was a _whir, _as if something was spinning, and was then followed by a _click._ My father slammed the book shut, causing me to jump with such force that I nearly launched Toby half way across the room. But something sounded strange about that book: It sounded hollow.

Uncle John picked up the little bag sitting next to my feet and kissed my forehead. "I'll stop by again and see you sometime, alright? Bye, luv." I heard him say as he was drowned out by Friday night rush hour.

The door was shut, and I was left alone. What exactly did they expect me to do until somebody returned home? Surely they didn't expect me to sit quietly for however long it may be. Did they?

I sat and waited for the next few minutes. Did you know that there are exactly 900 seconds inside of fifteen minutes? That's what I did from the moment that my father shut the door until the minute I left for Mycroft's club: I counted the 900 seconds.

By the time I had left, the rain had quieted down to an annoying spit. The only tapping that could be heard in the alley was either coming from the metal on the bottom of my ankle braces or the tapping of the cane that I usually carry around when I'm out in public.

Mycroft's club is only about eight or nine blocks or so from our flat. If you took a walk in my shoes (however uncomfortable they may be), you'd find that the world is not really measured in miles or kilometers, but the number of steps it takes to get from point A to point B.

The trek itself is fairly simple. Usually, if the lights aren't against me, it only takes about 10 minutes to get there from our flat. Of course, it _is _a little bit more complicated than I care to explain, but we're running short on time.

In any case, like always, the Little Britain was nearly packed with those of all races and creeds (and possibly colors). Languages bounced off the walls that I've never heard before. One couple was having an interesting conversation in German concerning the battle strategies of World War II.

As I bumped and shoved my way up to the front counter, I heard a voice ring out above all the others. Martin O'Connell's gruff Irish voice seemed to dominate everybody else.

"Hallo there, Little Miss. How're ya this fine evenin'? That's great. Mr. Holmes? He's in the back with you're uncle, the little portly fella (What's his name? John, is it?), and a couple of others. I think they're in a meetin' or somethin'. Want me to ring him for ya?" I nearly dived across the bar at him. I didn't want anybody to know that I was here, especially my father, uncle, and the little portly fellow named John.

I knew exactly where the back was. Just to the right of the bar there was a door that was practically hidden by a telephone that nobody bothered to use (or pay the bill on). The most that was back there was a passageway to the wine cellar and a desk for doing paperwork on. It obviously wasn't the most cheery of places in the establishment.

When I crept closer to the door, the voices inside became clearer. I'll admit it was a struggle listening to them over the obnoxious tune of Scott Joplin's Entertainer in full swing. I pressed my ear against the door and covered the other ear with my hand. All that was left were the voices inside.

"…was nearly twenty years ago. Times have changed since then." Uncle John sounded nervous, almost afraid to utter the wrong word. Most of this was probably mapped out in some way or another, but how?

"We understand that Dr Watson, but a man is dead and some loose ends need to be tied." The new person speaking was obviously from England, probably northern by the sound of his voice. He was very educated, with most of his vowels being drawn as if taught in school.

Did I hear him say 'a man is dead'? I'm sure that I did. My knees nearly became jelly at the sound of that. A second unrecognizable, yet distinctly American, voice made its way into the increasingly dangerous conversation.

"Did she or did she not say anything about the death of Godfrey Norton?" I had no idea who Godfrey Norton was, or this _she _that they were arguing over. She had to be of some importance. Maybe it was somebody in the government or something?

"No, she didn't. I didn't even know he was dead until you told me not five minutes ago. The last time I saw her was sixteen years ago, and the only thing she left behind was a letter. The blasted thing isn't even addressed to me." That was definitely my father. With each passing second it sounded as if his frustration was growing.

"Now, now, Mr Holmes, there's no need to be angry. We're just searching for information. Have you ever read this letter?" The Englishman nearly laughed the first sentence. His sneering voice reminded me of the day my Geography class found it interesting to call me a redcoat (As if they even know what the color red is). Suddenly there was a loud bang, and a chair was shoved.

"I've never read the damned thing! The last time I even saw _that _letter was when my daughter was born!"

Woah. Hold everything. Stop the tape. How did I become involved in this?

My stomach nearly caved in on itself. All of a sudden, I didn't feel well at all. My left knee finally collapsed, followed by a mistake that I wholesomely regret: My head hit the door.

The _thump _began to reverberate in my mind for what seemed like hours after it actually happened. Everybody seemed to react at the same moment. All five chairs were shoved back, while I scrambled to hide. I was never very good at hiding, as I can't tell if I'm completely concealed or not.

I dove behind the bar just as the door opened. My heart felt as if it were going to jump out of my chest and do a Turkish dance for all the customers. I held my breath, fearing that it would never return if I let it go. Whoever opened the door made a rather rude comment about Mycroft's patrons and then slammed the door. For a moment, the noise quieted slightly.

It was in these few minutes that I discovered it is possible to slow time down. Fear causes seconds to turn to minutes, minutes to hours, and hours to days. The Time Traveler is just an amateur compared to what I had to sit through.

I continued to sit with my hand over my beating heart before Martin O'Connell interrupted my lack of thought. I forgot exactly what he said that night, but all I could remember was I had to go home…

* * *

And that is chapter two! Who is _she? _Is it Michelle's mother, or no! Who is Godfrey Norton? Here's a little contest: Tell me who Godfrey Norton was and there'll be a special mystery prize thing! (By the way, Norton is in a very famous Holmes story...) I'll see you inchapter three if you've made it this far! 


	5. The Baker Street Irregulars

Chapter Three: The Baker Street Irregulars

* * *

I arrived home at around 8:40, just as the rain began to pound again. Toby had gone into a defensive mode and was attacking my soaking-wet shoe strings. My father was always saying that having a 'giant rodent incapable of training' was a bad idea, but I love my morbidly obese cat. He reminds me of Mycroft in a lot of ways.

In any case, Deddy was yet to return home. Memories of the last hour's events were still running circles in my head. Who were these voices? How did Deddy know them? And most importantly, how am I connected to all of this?

Finding no immediate answers to any of these questions, I shuffled over to the couch and felt for anything worth reading on the coffee table. Both my father and I have made it a nasty habit never to put things back, especially books. Occasionally Deddy goes on a strange and very random cleaning binge, but his version of cleaning is just moving things from one table to the other.

After finally selecting a book (_The Invisible Man, _which I've already read on three separate occasions) and feeding Toby for what seemed like the fifth time in one day, I plopped backwards onto the couch just as the clock struck nine. Deddy slinked in as I turned the seventh page.

"Damnéd cat, get out of the way…why the hell are you sitting in front of the do- Oh, hello sweetheart, why are you still awake?" he said as he shook the rain from his coat. Toby hissed at him before bounding off for more playful prey. I slapped the book shut and tossed it to whatever was in front of me. _The Invisible Man _landed squarely on the floor.

"I was waiting for you. Did you find Uncle John a room and all?" I asked with much indifference. Deddy started laughing, oddly enough.

"Yes, but we had a bit of a row with the taxi cab beforehand." I really had no idea what he was talking about, but I laughed anyway. He stopped suddenly.

"By the way, next time you decide to go down to Mycroft's this late at night, at least let me know, please." My ears began to burn in embarrassment.

"How did you know I went down to Mycroft's?"

"You're shoes are still wet. And never trust a man like Martin O'Connell to keep a secret." He sounded very pleased with himself as he picked up the book I had nonchalantly, and accidentally, tossed to the floor. I could literally hear every vertebra in his back pop as Deddy stood at full height again, book in hand.

"_The Invisible Man_? I thought you read this ages ago." The book bounced on the couch with much more accuracy than I showed. I sat for only a few moments more before hobbling over to the kitchen, where Deddy had began the slow process of making tea.

I stood in the doorway and began to think again. Should I ask who the men were? What should I tell my father, that I heard almost everything? What is my next move? Maybe I should wait until my opponent makes a move, but who exactly is my opponent? The men, or my father?

While I pondered, Deddy poured the steaming liquid into two cups. I never much cared for tea myself, but people constantly ask me if the English do nothing but sit around and drink the stuff all day. The only person I know who can never have enough caffeine is Uncle John, while Deddy says Mycroft needs to drink more of it.

"So why were you down there at this time of night, anyways?" he asked, lightly brushing my shoulder as he carried a tray into the living room. The heat from the cups reminded me how soaked I was. Drops of water were still dripping down my back.

The question came as a surprise. I could have said that I was looking about the room for an answer, just for poetic license, but I would be lying then, wouldn't I? I snapped my fingers, as if trying to remember something.

"The…umm…My math book." Mistake number one. He already knew I didn't have math that day, or homework for that matter. My teachers refuse to give us homework over the weekends (save for the crazy home economics teacher). My story wasn't going to stand very well.

"Getting ahead in algebra, are you? Here, drink this, you're going to catch another head cold. You know, when I was younger I abhorred math. And I hated my calculus teacher with every fiber of my being," he said after forcing a hot porcelain cup in my hands and bustling about the room, stopping at the book case. I followed his footsteps, eager to hear what he had to say about his childhood.

"If you hated calculus so much, why did you take it at University then?" I asked, dipping my finger in the tea to test its amount. Instantly I recoiled my finger, airing the scorched skin.

"I didn't take it at University, my father made me take it when I was fifteen." He took a book from the shelf and opened it, thumbing through the pages as he spoke. I nearly dropped the cup in amazement.

"Fifteen!"

"Yes, fifteen. Anyway, it's doesn't mean anything now. It's probably best to forget the whole matter."

I listened while he dropped the book on a nearby table, the alarming noise causing Toby to dart from underneath my feet back into the kitchen in retreat. I finished the last of the much welcomed tea as Deddy proceeded to take a book from the shelf, dig for something in his pocket, and replace the book on the top shelf. Sherlock Holmes is a very suspicious character.

I knew that he was hiding something from me, and I was sure he knew that fact as well. It was if as he was using the fact that I couldn't see what he was doing to his advantage. The King's Gambit. My next course of action was clear. I had to force his next move, whatever it may be…

The next day, I awoke to find my father still in the living room, bending over a microscope, meticulously comparing finger prints for another one of his cross-word puzzles. At least, that is what he told me.

Weekends, I have come to find, are often very dull and uneventful. The two short days are normally a welcome break from the terrible prison the United States government classifies as a school, but today, there was nothing interesting to brighten another blank, rainy day in downtown New York City.

Around noon, Deddy could recognize the signs of sheer boredom in my face, and decided to reach for the boxing bells next to him. You need not read that sentence twice; it really says 'boxing bells'.

I was taught to box when I was ten years old. At first, we played a game of hide-and-seek in which we would both tie a bell (of different pitch) to the back of our hand, and then try to find the other. Deddy would have to close his eyes, of course, but after awhile the game began to grow banal. So he tried something new.

It was confusing for him to almost completely change his boxing style, as the English and American styles differ greatly. After teaching me the new American style, he would tie both bells to the back of his hands and tell me a series of jabs and punches, then shake one of his hands, ringing the bell in which I was supposed to swing at. It's actually a very interesting game to play; I suggest you try it sometime.

At any rate, we played this game for well over two hours, neither of us tiring; though I did make his arm go numb after quite some time. We had enveloped ourselves so much into the game that we failed to notice the doorbell ringing.

Suddenly, the front door burst opened, and in stepped a very agitated Mycroft, breathing heavily against the traffic behind him. A set of keys flew past my ear, catching my father off guard, and striking him square in the chest. Mycroft may be on the larger side of the scale, but he has a dead-aim shot.

Uncle John quietly slinked past him and stepped in front of me. I knew he was there, but when he said 'boo' I jumped just to amuse him. As he gave me a loving hug, we became aware of the ensuing chaos behind us.

"What the hell are you doing! Do you realize what time it is!" Mycroft was shouting, pacing about the room at alarming speed. Deddy took the bells off and laid them on a table, chucking the keys back. When they argue like this, it sounds as if Deddy is yelling at himself.

"You only have twenty minutes…This place is a mess…Not much different from Baker Street, is it, Watson…This is no time to joke, you know…Yes, I know…What are we going to do with _her_...If you paid attention to the time, she'd be gone already, wouldn't she…" By the time they had finished, I was holding back an attack of giggles with very little effect.

They both turned on me at the same time. "What's so funny?"

To be honest, I wasn't sure what I was laughing at. I've heard my father and my uncle argue as if they were married numerous times before, but this particular bout was hilarious for no particular reason. But I was grateful for the random outburst of laughter; the day had started off so monotonous.

"What's happening in twenty minutes?" I asked after the giggles subsided. Mycroft resumed his pacing, causing the tea cups from last night to rattle in their places. I can't remember a time when he was this energetic about, well, anything.

Uncle John's voice chimed in from behind me. "It's nothing for you to worry about." Statements like this are usually cause for concern in my family. Last time my father said something like that he caught his hair on fire and nearly lost an eyebrow.

"John's right. Would you mind stepping into the other room, please?" called Mycroft from across the room. Before I had a chance to protest, my father was already shoving me into the kitchen. After closing the sliding doors, he gave me some last minute instructions.

"Michelle, listen carefully. I want you to stay in here. Whatever happens, do not make a sound. If something does happen, go out the side door to the precinct. Do you understand?" He paused while I nodded. "Good. Remember, not a sound. By the way, I love you." And with that, he retreated into the sitting room as the doorbell rang for a second time.

You may have guessed by now that I was scared out of my wits. All my suspicions were confirmed. The three of them _were_ hiding something, and they were terrible at concealing it. I may be blind, but I'm not completely ignorant, even though I have my share of stupid red-headed moments.

There were two people who stepped in, I could hear that much. One was a bit larger than the other, the heavy footsteps told me so. I wasn't sure who, but somebody was smoking a Cabana cigar.

I could hear the adrenaline pounding in my ears. Everything was happening so fast. It was as if a Victrola was placed on the wrong speed. Two days ago I was wondering what new artifact Uncle John saw at the British Museum; I wasn't cowering in fear in a kitchen.

Voices from the next room grabbed my already bewildered attention. I was reminded of last night's incident with the violin. My ear was practically plastered to the door again, desperately trying to hear any bit of conversation. I know, it wasn't any of my business, but it's a weakness of the Holmes' clan dating back to the French artists.

I'm sure formalities were skipped; that or I blanked for five minutes, because the first person I heard was my father.

"So, what can I do for you, Mr. Gregson?" he said with a cold voice. Mycroft interrupted.

"Please make this quicker, gentlemen. Doctor Watson has a plane to catch and I've a business to run." My uncle was lying. Uncle John didn't go back to England until next week, and Mycroft seldom works on Saturday.

"Mycroft, please. Now, Gregson and...Williams, is it? What do you want from me?"

I'm sure my heart nearly failed when I heard the voices of the two men. I knew who they were. My hands started to shake, while my knees turned into jam again. Luckily this time I didn't fall.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes, and Dr. Watson, I'd like to make you a deal…"

It was the Englishman.

* * *

I am so sorry, my loyal fans, that this hasn't been updated in so long. But now school is back so I have motivation! My little contest thing didn't quite work out; but those people who answered right (the answer being Godfrey Norton), you'll live with the knowledge that you've made a Sherlockian proud! I'm sorry this chapter wrapped up so quickly, but don't worry, there's much more to come... 


	6. The Sign of the Five

Chapter 4-The Sign of the Five

* * *

_Sink all coffins and all  
hearses to one common pool and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still  
chasing thee, though tied to thee…_

-Captain Ahab

A deal? That's the best he could come up with? Even threats from my fellow classmates are better than that. Apparently this guy has never read _The Art of War_.

"Yes, sir. A deal. Don't worry; I'm not threatening any mortal danger. All I want is to see what is in the letter, that's it. How hard can it be, Mr. Holmes?" the Englishman continued. He was certainly a robust man, possibly the size of Mycroft, with a deep, round voice that rattled the windows. He sat down in a chair, causing the springs to creak from the weight.

I'm pretty sure Deddy was lounging about in his favorite spot, either resting his feet on the coffee table or over the side in his 'Shakespearean Pose', as Mycroft puts it. They sounded like mobsters, with their heated conversation and fast talking politics. God, I read too many crime novels (Ha!).

From Uncle John's voice, I could tell he was sitting on the sofa closest to the fireplace. He was nervous again, careful not to make a wrong move.

"I've seen this letter myself; surely there is nothing of grave importance in it-"

"But there has to be, Dr. Watson. Why else would she address it _only _to your daughter? She knew full well that you would not read it," the American, Williams, spoke for the first time. He had a rather high-pitched voice when the music of ragtime wasn't drowning it out. Mycroft nearly pounced on him.

"That is neither here nor there, gentlemen. The point is that it is addressed to Michelle, only to be opened on her next birthday. What do you want the damn thing for anyways?"

"It could contain the identity of Godfrey Norton's killer," Gregson tested, his voice rising with frustration. Hell, if they wanted it so much, I would've given it to them ages ago. Then again, until last night I didn't know such a letter existed.

Deddy stood on his feet and began to pace about the room, his familiar gait giving his position away instantly. There were moments of pure silence, with my father marching back and forth like a sergeant. Then Mycroft said a phrase which scared me to death. It still haunts me to this day.

"Sherlock…what's wrong?"

He called my fathers name a few more times before breaking into a run. It took everything in my power not to follow Mycroft's lead. I wanted my Deddy more at this moment than any other. I was the sick one as a baby, and every time I made a sound, Deddy was there. But at least he knew why I was sick all the time. Uncle John won't tell me what's wrong with my father.

I remember that in Uncle John's stories my father only passes out twice (one was a joke, so I guess that only counts as half). These days, it's becoming a normal occurrence. Some days he refuses to get out of bed, or his chest hurts so much he can barely stand. But the terrible coughing scares me most.

When he's in bed all day, I can talk to him, try to help him feel better, things like that. But during his coughing fits, there's nothing. He shakes so much I can't hold his hand, and when I try to, he usually just waves me away. It's very disheartening.

But this time it was different. His voice was muffled, probably buried in his sleeve. And there was a strange noise behind it. It sounded like he was sniffling to me. Was he…Was he crying? Of course, he was masking it with a small coughing spell, but I could hear it. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective of Baker Street, whose stoic nature often broke the hardest of convicts, was in tears. Moments later, so was I.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?...Good, now sit down and rest. We need to get this over with in a few minutes anyways," said Mycroft, his voice ranging from concerned to its usual flat monotone.

Williams began to grow fidgety, crossing his legs and tapping his foot. Apparently, they had a date as well, or Mycroft was beginning to scare them. It happens a lot down at the Club. He was the next to stand and pace, lighting a match as he went (So _Williams_ was the one with that horrible cigar!).

I opened the cover of my watch, feeling for the time. 12.34. How much longer could this drag on?

"You wait sixteen years to tell me this?" Deddy said, almost too inaudible to hear. "Sixteen God-damned years, knowing full well that she had been here? Do you have any idea what I've had to put up with for the past sixteen years?"  
Excuse me?

"Every day I've debated whether or not to tell my daughter why her mother left me, why she is the way she is, why my brother practically lives with us. But can I tell her that her mother is a killer?"

"We never said Ms. Adler killed him, we just-"

"But you insinuate it, gentlemen. Why did you not come to me sooner?" Deddy's voice rose in anger. Adler? That was her name? Adler Holmes just seems weird to me. You'd think by now I would at least know the name of my own mother, but my family keeps a lot of secrets.

"By the time we learned of her whereabouts both of you were gone. You've remarked yourself how clever she was to elude us for nearly a year. But when we finally found the trail that lead to Baker Street, we also found the rooms empty, save for inches of dust. We followed you, Mr. Holmes. It took sixteen 'God-damned' years, but we finally caught up." Williams was starting to annoy everyone as the seconds ticked on. Is it possible to hate someone without ever actually meeting them? Uncle John spoke up.

"How?"

There was a long pause here. No one spoke. The only audible thing in both rooms was the clock ticking away without a care. Occasionally Toby mewed at the door, but ran off when someone shifted their feet. It was then that I realized my cat sounds more like a shot muffler than an actual morbidly obese cat.

"That makes no difference. The point is this; you allow us access to this letter, or we make the rest of your days a living hell, _Mr._ Holmes. You wouldn't want that for your daughter, would you?" I never thought that Americans could sound so ugly, namely Gregson. His voice reminded me of the sound a piano makes when a string pops and it's wrenched from the pegs. It's not a pleasant thought, really. After a few moments, Deddy gave in.

"Of course I wouldn't."

"Good! Now, where may we find this letter?"

"Somewhere in the Baker Street flat."

I thought the two gentlemen were going to keel over and die. Mycroft chuckled, trying his best to stifle it but to no avail. I, too, found it hilarious that someone would travel all over the globe searching for something they've passed two or three times. It's similar to the way Deddy drives; he'll go past the street he's looking for without noticing (That's also the reason he's denounced the automobile as a whole).

"Mycroft told you; it's not to be opened until she's seventeen. It's only her _sixteenth_ birthday next week."

The two were speechless. They were going to have to wait another year before their little mystery could be solved. But this also left me thinking: Why seventeen? Surely there was no major difference between sixteen and seventeen, other than their numerical value. Gregson, the American, stood up.

"What are you trying to hide Mr. Holmes? What did she do to you that you're so afraid of?" he said, desperation flooding his voice. The chess game was beginning to come to an end. Gregson could see a checkmate in his future, unless he tried something radical.

"Nothing. She showed up at Baker Street, bloody and bruised. She feared that someone was going to take her away, probably you two, so we moved to my father's old estate. That was the end of it." Nice counter, Ded.

"No, that wasn't the end of it. How do you explain that hunchbacked dwarf of yours scurrying about?" Gregson's desperation has hit its peak. That was low, even for my satanic class.

Suddenly I was thrown back from the door as Gregson came crashing into it. Tripping over my own stupid feet I caught myself on the kitchen table, causing every last plate to fall violently onto the floor. In spite of this, Williams continued.

"Pull that trigger, Dr. Watson, and you'll follow him."

Wait, when did this turn into the gunfight at the OK Corral? Surely Uncle John has since been rid of the old revolver, hasn't he? Mycroft ordered both put their weapons away.

I, on the other hand, began to panic. They knew I was here. I should've done what Deddy told me to do and ran while I still had the chance. I'm going to be in so much trouble when they leave. Those plates were expensive.

Searching for something that would help come up with a good story, I located my cane and knapsack placed neatly by the back door. A walk…Yes, that would have to suffice. A walk with our neighbors son who asked if I would like to join him yesterday. I could write a whole play based on this made up rubbish.

The door slowly slid open, and Deddy stuck his head in. It wouldn't have surprised me if a random bird flew into the window and began to spout 'Nevermore!'. Surprises are not very surprising these days.

"Ah! You're back. Well, how was it?" I could see (Ha!) where this was going. He starts out with something vague, and I narrow it down with details. It's a process that's been developing since the day I learned to talk, and works mostly on the social workers who think I should be stuck in a home instead of with an English lunatic who's caused more fires than when London was burned in the 1600s.

I took a few steps forward and felt Deddy's hand on my shoulder. One of the gentlemen's cologne began to grow overpowering, but I didn't acknowledge their presence. Not yet anyways.

"Next time you decide to move the table, at least tell me, please. It was just fine. Isaac and I walked all the way through the park and up to the library-The book you ordered is in, by the way-then headed down to Mycroft's for a bit of lunch but he wasn't there-"

"If I knew you were two going to be there I would've stayed," Mycroft called. It was no secret that the entire Holmes family enjoys games of verbal charades, especially if several unknowing people are present. I continued as if there wasn't anyone else in the room.

"Oh, hello, Mycroft. Anyroad, Isaac wanted to thank you for allowing me to go. Chivalrous young men are always so sweet." Wow, that was new. Isaac, or _Yitzchak_, was our Jewish neighbors son who's lived next to us for about a year now, since the war ended. His entire family (all nine of them if I remember correctly) is from the middle of Poland. I dropped my bag on the middle of sofa and sat next to it.

"Michelle, I'd like you to meet someone. This is Geoffrey Williams and Samuel Gregson." I held out my hand and politely accepted both of theirs. As the creepy Englishman Williams took mine and kissed it, Deddy's grip on my shoulder grew tighter. Formalities were run through with a half-hearted tone, and the gentlemen took their turn to leave. One of them stopped before the door closed.

"You throw a mean hook, Doctor, but you better watch yourself. Just in case."

Those two were the most infuriating people! Every ounce of my soul abhorred them with a passion. If I could throw a mean hook, I would've done exactly what Uncle John did. My father tossed himself back into his favorite armchair, heaving a sigh of relief that the two monsters were gone. But how long would it before they returned?

Uncle John poured himself a drink, hands shaking. The bottle chinked against his glass as he struggled to pour it, doing his best not to spill anything. I stood next to him and wrenched the bottle from his hands, an uneasy task considering his intense fear. My Uncle was a brave man, but all brave men have their limits.

He slowly resumed his seat on the couch as I continued pouring. Placing an index finger in the glass, I slowly filled the cup to the midpoint. I've come to find that people regard this practice as quite unnerving, especially when its liquor. (As if alcohol isn't contaminated enough.) Most people won't accept the glass after I've poured it.

I asked if anyone wanted anything, but they were either too tired or concentrated to respond. All was quiet once more. What were they going to do? Now would be a good time to get a few answers. But should I risk setting off their agitation? In the chess game between my family and me, we were only on the third move, compared to William and Gregson's endgame. A forced mate now would be fatal to both parties.

"Michelle, would you mind going into the other room, please?" my father asked suddenly, just as I was going to sit next to Uncle John. I could tell this was going to be argumentative, something nobody had enough energy left over for. There were too many things I wanted to say, though.

"But, I-"

"Just go."

I've never heard Deddy's tone be so forceful before (except when I stepped out into traffic once; that was ugly). There were so many different emotions thrown at me that it would be difficult to separate them all. I could leave with a fight, and risk verbal decapitation, or I could go quietly. Which would it be?

So I made for the door, careful not to run into Ded's feet hanging over the side of the chair. I had to get at least one word thrown in, though. It could be the only chance I have for awhile.

Stopping with my hand on the knob, I turned to face the only three men I've ever known.

"You can't keep me out of this forever, you know."

With that, I opened the front door and left, stumbling across the sidewalk as I headed towards Mycroft's…

* * *

Okay, so I'm sorry about not posting and all that jazz. By now I'm pretty sure you're sick of reading it, so I'm not gonna apologize anymore. The one thing I _will_ promise in the next chapter is plot advancement. A small one mind, but a plot advance none the less. I hope you've enjoyed reading up to this point, but you're in for a long one. Stick around till the end, from what people have told me it's a big one! 


	7. The Darkest Hour

Chapter 5-The Darkest Hour

* * *

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his temples in frustration, letting out a low sigh, desperate to be rid of the gnawing ache behind his eyes. Pangs of both guilt and worry were knocking about in his chest, or maybe it was something else.

He didn't feel guilty about sending Michelle out on her own. She knew the city backwards, and besides, Martin will be at the Club. Holmes was much more worried about what he was going to say when she returned.

"'Lord, what fools these mortals be,'" he said, more to himself than to anyone in particular. Watson downed the contents of the glass in a single gulp, his nerves once again controlling his movements. The three were too tired to speak, much less to each other. Mycroft nearly dropped in a large chair to the left of his prostrate brother.

_"Quel diras tu, Petit Frère?" _asked Mycroft. He sat staring forward, his slack expression suddenly making him look much older than he actually was. Watson frowned, annoyed that once again a conversation was going right over his head. The most he knew what Mycroft's pet name for his younger brother, but the rest was a blank. It reminded him of the night Holmes lay on his deathbed after his failed suicide attempt fourteen years ago.

_"Je ne sais pas, mon Gros Frère. _Do you think she heard everything?"

"Knowing her, she'll come storming back at any moment, demanding to know the rest. She takes after you too much."

Holmes sighed once again, expecting the door to slam open as the words left the older man's lips, but no such sound ever came. Traffic was the only noise emanating from outside. Just the sound of it was exhausting.

"_Quel supprimerons avec le?" _continued Mycroft, nodding in the Doctor's direction. Watson was completely oblivious, and the look on his face was almost comical, but there was no energy to laugh. The younger Holmes pressed his fingers together and began to think.

This game was becoming far too dangerous to involve outside parties, and Watson was an unnecessary piece to deal with. It was difficult to consider options, especially when lives were hanging in the balance, and the last thing Holmes wanted to hear was that his friend had been murdered for no reason, save that he knew biggest imbecile in all of both Baker Street histories.

"Watson, I want you to disappear."

The good Doctor nearly jumped in anger. A range of emotions buzzed through him, leaving the glass he was holding in danger of being crushed. He wanted to shout all of a sudden, or say something back, but after nearly thirty years, he knew there was no way to change any of the Holmes' minds. They had to be the most stubborn family he had ever known.

Watson took out the envelope he had been carrying in his breast-pocket, smoothing the worn edges and yellowing paper. It was to be Michelle's rushed sixteenth birthday present (though it was intended for next year); the letter her mother had written the week after she was born, the same letter Williams and Gregson were hoping to find.

For her entire first week of life, Michelle had gone completely nameless. Seeing no other way to address the letter, Irene had simply written 'On Her seventeenth birthday'. The paper was abnormally thick, making it impossible to see through. Watson couldn't remember if Irene knew that her little girl was blind.

But at the present he was too furious to care. Watson had been through hell and back with the family, and now he was being tossed aside without his opinion. There weren't enough words to describe how…used he felt. Frustration seethed in his ears as he spoke.

"I'm not leaving. I've seen this entire case through from the moment it began sixteen years ago. This isn't the first time my life's been threatened-"

"And I certainly don't want it to be the threat that goes too far," Holmes snapped. All of a sudden, for the first time in his life, Holmes felt the effects of age. Fifty-six felt much more like seventy-six. No doubt Watson and Mycroft felt much older.

Mycroft rubbed at the shadow of a beard, thoughtfully weighing things in his mind. He could see both sides of the argument, though he leaned more towards his brother's. Watson was too good a friend to put in so much danger. He was even tempted to send Michelle along with him, but she was already too involved; a sudden departure would look suspicious.

The three were silent once again. Minutes came and went, along with hours that slid past them in a haze. Little by little, their anger subsided into a dull boil, and they finally began to work things out once again. Within that span of time, Watson had subserviently agreed to leave. He didn't voice it, but the other two somehow knew.

"You'll need to leave before Michelle returns. She'd throw a fit if we told her you _were _leaving, and then she wouldn't let you go. No, it's best that you just leave and let us deal with it," mused Holmes, thinking aloud. Mycroft silently nodded, while Watson's heart sank.

He hadn't seen Michelle since she was two years old. Holmes had sent pictures every year, so he knew what she _looked _like, but since they had moved to America, he had not seen her since the Sickness. And now, only two days after he had arrived, Watson was being forced out again. Who knew how long he would have to wait to see her again _this _time.

Holmes, to his dying day, would never admit that he didn't want Watson to leave either. The older man was well over sixty, and neither was sure that he would last another sixteen years. The infections of India had destroyed his health, and each day he grew weaker. Hell, for Mycroft it was only a matter of time.

But at least sixteen years would be a possibility if Watson was to leave at that moment. He hadn't brought much, and packing would only take a few minutes. As long as he left _now_. That was his only chance for survival.

Silently, they made ready for his departure. With each passing minute, Holmes grew more and more disgusted with himself. He was slowly forcing people out of his life; first his own daughter, second his only friend. Sure, he had tried to be rid of Mycroft on numerous occasions, but looking back, Holmes could now see how unstable he had been. It was a sickening recollection.

With Watson's bags completely packed, and a cab waiting just outside, Holmes looked at his friend one last time before age stole the familiar features. He stuck out his hand, expecting a simple handshake, but a sudden urge compelled him to embrace his friend. Holmes hardly showed his emotions, but this time he couldn't help it. He gave Watson a simple hug.

It wasn't until after the door closed and the cab pull away did Holmes feel the need to return to an awful addiction he thought had been done away with so many years ago.

I don't recall much of what happened that night, other than that all the cigarette smoke and alcohol, as well as playing every jaunty tune I knew on the piano, made my head reel. At some point during the night I had nearly collapsed onto Mycroft's cot he kept in the back. It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that I was finally rescued.

With the three of us being far too tired to walk home at such an unusual hour, Mycroft called a cab. As it drove up, my head became clearer, and the fog which seemed to cloud my reasoning lifted. I sat on Deddy's lap for most of the ride, laying my head on his bony shoulder. He smelt of strong tobacco, and I knew instantly something was wrong, else he wouldn't have smoked so much. One of these days, he's going to smoke holes in the bottom of his feet.

But I was too dizzy from the high-life to ask. Sitting there, wrapped up in Mycroft's large coat, I felt so peaceful (not to mention warm; one of Mycroft's coats would be good for a trip up Everest.). It was as if nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. And yet, there was _something_.

A small bump protruded from the bottom of his forearm, no bigger than a Braille dot. I didn't think much on it until all of a sudden a large yelp resounded from Deddy's chest. Instantly, he recoiled his arm, massaging the swollen skin.

An intense silence followed. Naturally, I had no idea why this single chicken pock was so alarming, but apparently Mycroft did. He spoke in French, as he usually did when angry at Ded.

"_Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?" _he said angrily. I knew what he was saying, since French has been drilled into every Holmesian skull since England became a country, I didn't bother to translate it in my head at the time. Deddy rested his chin on my skull.

"_Je suis lâche, Mycroft. Je ne t'arrêt pas moi." _What was that supposed to mean? Mycroft took a long time to answer

"_Si voulez tuer vous, trés bien; ça m'est bien égal."_

At this I began to panic. We had gone from a rather pleasant midnight drive to a mention of suicide. What on Earth is happening?

I sat up instantly and attempted to say something, but the most that came from my mouth were noises that sounded like a choking cat. This whole mess was so confusing, and no one would give me any answers. I was obviously involved in some way, and yet I was being hidden. My father and uncle are two of the four most aggravating people!

Mycroft realized his mistake and tried in vain to correct it, assuring me that everything was fine, but his words were of little use. Within a matter of minutes, I was so worked up that Deddy began to rock me as if I was two again.

I wanted answers, and obviously I wasn't going to get any, at least not from my family. There was little that I knew to begin with; my mother is involved somehow, a guy I've never heard of is part of it, my father and uncle are waist deep in this mess. And somehow, I am as well.

But sometimes I wish I could see where exactly this was going. My little mystery up to this point is relatively plot less. That or I'm having another red-head moment. This would be so much easier if I had more details, and the best place to go for that would be Deddy's encyclopedia on nearly everything. The only problem is that the letters are printed. What good would that do me if I went up to Ded and said "Hey Ded, you mind looking up Godfrey Norton in your little index here and telling me what the hell he has to do with my Mum?" No, that wouldn't work.

I could beg, but that would be childish. Or simply ask him. Nope, bad idea. He'll give me some cryptic puzzle to think over for days. What to do, what to do…

The ride lasted only minutes later. I didn't feel much like walking (it also felt as if Deddy didn't want to let go of me anyways), so I was whisked off to bed more confused than ever. It never occurred to me that Uncle John wasn't with us…

* * *

Umm...yeah. That's 5. I find this story rather pathetic (hell, I'm the author!). Ah well, it was a good try. The only person who's kept it really going is my good friend Watson. So, thanks Watson. Anyways, all I gotta do now is come up with something remotely interesting.


	8. In Quest of a Solution

Chapter 6-In Quest of a Solution

* * *

I awoke to a completely changed atmosphere. What was once cheerful and bright yesterday was suddenly dark and morose. Little was said the rest of the evening, and my concern greatly increased the next morning.

This particular day, I woke naturally, not to any ear-splitting violin concerto or chemical odors. Putting on some trousers, I snuck into the main room and accidentally sat on Deddy, who was asleep on the sofa. He woke with a start.

"Michelle? What are you doing up this early? You ought to be in bed," he said failing to hide the sleep in his voice.

"I don't think it's very early. What were you doing on the sofa?"

"Thinking." I heard him open and snap shut his pocket watch. "You're right; it's a quarter past ten. And no more late nights for you, young lady, be glad you don't have school today."

He paused momentarily before pulling me into a tight hug. We sat there for a moment before he began digging for his a pipe, rummaging about his trouser pockets and the sofa. He found it resting on the floor underneath the tea table.

Once lit, and the smoke successfully permeating the entire room, he sat against the sofa again and wrapped his long, thin arm around my shoulder. The mark from the previous night remained, as well as a few newer ones. Were they bug bites, perhaps?

"I've got something to tell you, and you mustn't be angry with me."

Anything that started with a phrase like that could not be good. I nodded anyways.

"Watson had to return home early. He couldn't stay here with us," he said slowly, sadness emanating from his words. Deddy drew a long puff on the pipe, letting out in a slow but very shaky breath. I could only sit perfectly still, flashes of intense anger flaring up inside me every millisecond. In one instant though I was excessively sad, then so angry I actually wanted to slap my father. There were so many mixed feeling I didn't say anything for minutes before sorting them out.

I knew the answer before I even asked the question. "Couldn't he have just gone to an hotel?" The swaying of his shoulders told me he shook his head no. "No, sweetheart, he had to return to London."

I was on my feet almost instantly. "But why? He was only here for a day, and I hardly even remember when I was with him last. It's not fair-"

"I know it's not but things have changed, Michelle. It is not safe to stay here anymore."

My blood was liquid magma running through my veins. The frustration I had been feeling the past number of days began to reach a peak and my head swam in anger.

"If it's so bloody dangerous, why am I still here? Why didn't you just ship me back as well?" By the end of my rant I was practically screaming at my father. He stood to his full height then, tilting my ear at him, his was of making sure I was listening.

"I'm doing the best I can, Michelle, I'm only one person. It'd be easier if _the_ woman were here, but she's not and she never will be, so you're just going to have to be patient. You're safer with me."

I scoffed, pure sarcasm lending a nasty bite to my words. "Right, you can't even keep the bugs off your arms. How are you going to protect me?"

Deddy didn't say anything, his wheezy breath sounding much more like a sigh each time. I didn't move though, it became clear what I'd said struck a nerve that ran deep.

We waited in silence until a door in the hall opened and Mycroft lazily bumbled his way out. "You both know it's too early in the morning for an argument?" His large frame shook the floor beneath my feet as he waddled over to plant a kiss on my forehead. I felt no affection at the present to return his greeting.

From the distance of his voice I could tell Deddy was turned away from us. "Michelle was just going to a different room," he replied, flatly but with force. Enough to send me into the kitchen without argument. I kept on ear on the door as I made a bowl of porridge for the three of us. For some reason, Deddy sounded exhausted all of a sudden.

"I'm short of ideas, Mycroft," he began. "She's so much like her mother in every way imaginable, and just like the woman I can't reach her. I'm worrying all the time for her and its clouding my judgment. I should never have gotten involved with anyone in the first place."

"I'm sure she knows, Sherlock, you don't exactly have it easy with either situation. Now what I would endeavor to know is why our family can never aspire to do anything normal for a change." Deddy chuckled then, a sound I hadn't heard it quite some time.

"Probably not since we were children. And to think we once chased pigeons and cats in our idle time. Speaking of, I know if one specific young lady does not come retrieve her mongrel it will be thrown out with the rubbish."

That was my cue to enter. I wasn't ashamed they knew I was listening, if they didn't want me to know of their conversation they would have spoken Chinese or some other language I know little of. Mycroft, with the prospect of food at hand, hurried into the kitchen and rolled the breakfast tray back out. The tension had mulled considerably, but I remained aloof near Deddy. He was the first to speak.

"Michelle, would you like to hear of your grandparents?"

What exactly had I not heard a thousand times before about them? I knew of Siger, his riddles and clues left about the house for my father. I knew of Violet as well, although neither my father nor uncle spoke much on her. She was definitely a rather shady figure in their lives. But of all my father's stories, there was one thing I'd never heard before, and on some strange impulse I let it slip from my mouth.

"I'd like to know how they died."

Complete silence.

Today was the day to push buttons, that was all too apparent. Deddy remained fixed for a time, his audible wheezing the only sound. He then leapt to his feet and proceeded to nearly dash from the room, his heavy but quick footsteps resonating with anger. As I sat confused, Mycroft put his bowl on the table and slowly pulled me towards himself, his massive girth nearly swallowing me.

"Do you really want to hear that, my dear?" he asked. I wasn't quite sure why he was so secretive about it, or why Deddy was so upset, but it only served to intensify my need to know. I nodded.

"Your father is much better at telling you stories, mind, but I'm going to tell you as I remember it.

"We were still relatively young, at least he was. I was about to ship off to university at the time. And you know then I was actually quite thin and handsome as well, if you can believe that, until your father ran me ragged and I refused all forms of exercise. At any road, I had just turned 19, and Sherlock had turned 12 in January."

Mycroft inhaled an enormous breath before truly beginning his tale. "The day it happened I was packing my cases downstairs, and I remember your father running about the halls in his nightgown from Siger. They were playing a game or something, I never asked. At one moment Sherlock tried to hide under my bed, but I did away with that."

I could never imagine my father as a child, especially one who played or had any sort of fun at all. Based on the stories he always told me, it sounded as if he didn't smile until adulthood. And I've felt my father's face as he's smiled before. Surprisingly, he has a nice smile; it feels warm, inviting. My father doesn't smile unless he's truly happy.

"Sherlock ran upstairs then, and your grandfather stepped in for a bit to check on my progress. God, Michelle, they both seemed so happy then, so full of life, the only time I think I've ever seen your father so happy was the day you'd gotten over being so sick and whatnot. And possibly the day you were born but I wasn't in the room for that event."

As funny and whimsical as Mycroft's comments were, I could tell he was stalling. I began to regret asking to hear this, and if neither had decided to tell me up until now it must be 

more painful than I originally thought. Toby at some point curled up in my lap, and idly I played with his ears as Mycroft continued.

"So Siger and your father, I told him and went on my way. A few minutes later there was some sort of commotion upstairs and I heard Father's gun go off. Twice actually," said my uncle as if the memory physically pained him. "I rushed upstairs and inched open the door, and the first that I saw was Siger holding onto your father. There's honestly no way to describe to you how terrified I felt at that moment, Michelle; your father was quite small then and as much as he tries to cause a nervous breakdown in me I still love the bastard and the way Siger was holding him he looked dead." Mycroft's words began to speed up as he grew panicked.

To keep my uncle from having a panic attack, I interrupted him to slow him down, forcing him to think. "Why did he look like that?"

"He'd fallen out of the bureau and smacked his head on the floor is what he's told me, all I remember is his eyes were closed and Siger was crying over him.

"Then your grandfather turned and handed Sherlock to me, and I saw what happened." Mycroft tightened his grip on my shoulder. "He killed both of them, Michelle; Violet and a lover that is. They never really loved each other, you see. Our mother was always off with some other man, and our father was too busy managing an estate and an abnormally hyper boy at the same time to really care about Violet's whereabouts. But she never did any of it at home, always somewhere else. I guess that was the last straw from Siger-"

"Tell her how Siger died, Mycroft," etched a voice from the corner. I'd been so enraptured in Mycroft's telling I'd failed to hear Deddy open his bedroom door. His voice sounded somewhat distant, so I assumed he was sitting on the floor.

Mycroft rejected his request. "Sherlock, she's already had enough-"

"He hung himself about a month later in his cell, before the trial. They buried him somewhere in an unmarked grave behind the cell house. And Violet? She has a tombstone and everything, even has our names on it. How bloody ironic is that, eh?" His sardonic laugh made me retreat into Mycroft's shoulder. Uncle John often tells me that at times my father was near impossible to live with.

"Sherlock, vas-y," Mycroft demanded. _Go away_.

My father sneered his reply as if he were a defiant child. "Et pourquois?" _And why is that?_

"Alles!" bellowed Mycroft, forcing me to jump and sending Toby running for cover. My father and my uncle fight often, but until now I've never felt truly scared. Mycroft stood slowly and pulled me up with him. After a few tense moments of neither party moving an inch, my uncle and I made our way to the front door. "We're going then."

Deddy made some sort of movement. "Get out."

I found the entire situation entirely unfair, not to mention surreal, and I began to protest but the more Deddy moved the faster Mycroft ushered me out the door. And without another word, and without any sort of objection, my father slammed it in my face.

* * *

Jesus, I didn't expect to ever get this start up again. But I wrote this chapter and the next few while I was in Europe! For the past two years I've had the worst case of writer's block with this thing, but I've finally got the ball rolling again and I assure you that it has an ending. Now hopefully I haven't lost all my fans like with my other story :( I'll try to have the next chapter up within the next week or two. Thanks for keeping up with this!


	9. The House of Fear

Chapter 7-The House of Fear

* * *

Typical of my uncle, we went to a small café a few blocks from our flat, saying very little along the way. After ordering something light, which for me might as well be here courses, he tapped my hand.

"I'm sorry you had to be witness to that," he began. I've noticed from time to time that my family and acquaintances tend to avoid the word "see" and all other synonyms. I've never been entirely sure if they were doing it deliberately or just did not want to offend me. Whatever the case may be, I brushed away his apology. As curious as I was to know what triggered the event, particularly Deddy's strange behavior as we left, I was not in any hurry to relive them.

My uncle also made me realize I did not want to return home in any short span of time. If I knew my father, by the time we returned he would be under a characteristic depression that strikes after he feels it necessary to yell at me for some reason or another.

I asked Mycroft, trying to both hide and ignore the pleading in my voice. "Can we just go to the club, please? I want to try out the piano since it's been tuned." Unfortunately fishing for excuses was never my strong suit.

He gave a pensive 'hmm', a trait both him and my father had to develop since I was young. Since I'm unable to see them actually ponder anything, they began using the verbal cue to prove they had either heard my question or were not just ignoring me.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair. "We probably ought to return home."

"But we can't go back," I retorted.

"Why not?"

"There are bugs in his room. And they bite." The insecurity in my voice was apparent, even to me. Mycroft leaned in close to me again.

"Bugs?"

I raised my arm and tapped at the spots I could remember in which I felt the bumps. "He's got their bite marks all over his arm, lots of them up here," I said, rubbing my fingers up my forearm, near the artery. Mycroft said nothing, instead laying down some amount of currency (which I assume was far more than enough to pay our bill) and pulled me out of the chair. Although somewhat large, Mycroft remained able to hoist me into his arms, and as he nearly ran the entire way home, my head felt as if it were about to rattle off my neck.

Mycroft allowed me to walk on my own less than a block from our flat. He told me to stay in my place near the street lamp, a mere thirty paces from the front door, but once he made his way to the front door I followed his bumbling footsteps. I stood in an open doorway, calling for Toby.

As my uncle rumbled about in other rooms, Toby brushed up against my leg, using my ankle brace as a rubbing post. I failed to notice the increasingly hurried footsteps above my head. When I began calling for Deddy, Mycroft scampered back downstairs.

"I told you to stay in your place," he snapped. I immediately became defensive.

"But I wanted to play with Tob-"

"The cat goes to your little Jewish friend. It's not safe to stay here any longer."

The hurry in his Mycroft's voice increased my adrenaline tenfold. Hanging on tight to Toby, I shuffled as fast as possible throughout the room calling for my father, pieces of something crushed beneath my feet. I stopped.

Glass.

Listening carefully, I used my other senses to survey the room. The traffic seemed much louder than normal, leading me to believe the windows had been busted. Taking a small step forward, my knees knocked against something tough and hollow sounding. The table was upended, thrown aside at an odd angle. And it became clear: someone ransacked our flat.

Toby began squirming when Mycroft came up behind me. Without thinking, I stroked his long neck and back, drinking in all that just occurred. I barely heard him say that my father was gone; all I could do was lean into my uncle's portly stomach and cry, not from fear or anger but shame. The last that I'd said to my father were words flooded with spite and sarcasm.

Mycroft telephoned the police as I lugged Toby and some necessary pet care items over to Yitzchak, the only other person on Earth whom Toby allows petting outside my small family and I. Back at home, policemen forced me to sit and answer any questions put forth by them. Mycroft stood close by, surveying the room once more before the police trampled everything and also to monitor my stress levels.

"Where was your father last?"

In this very room as far as I know.

"Was anyone else with you?"

Only the three of us. And our cat.

"Did your father say anything of running away?"

Up until that point my responses had been mechanical, automatic. But the last question demanded that I stop and take a deep, centering breath. And then I smelled it.

Cigar smoke.

The scent was extremely faint, and it became apparent as they herded about our flat that none of the officers smoked, else the smell would either be very strong or stale. Mycroft noticed my hesitation and leaned into my ear.

"What is it, dearest?"

"He's been here," I began, so alarmed I could hardly say more than a few words.

"Who?"

The more I spoke, the more I began to panic. "Williams. The man with the cigar. He's got Deddy, Mycroft. It's him, I know it! He took Deddy…" As I began to mumble through rising tears again, Mycroft ushered the men outside for me so that silently, my uncle and I could pack a large suitcase, bringing only what we could grab in ten minutes.

* * *

Things are about to happen extremely fast, Oh My Brothers. In an attempt to finish this before college begins, I'm going to try and post like crazy. Keep the faith in me! And once again, I thank everyone who's read and kept up with this, even after my ridiculously long vacation. You guys are the reason I even put fingertips to keys.


	10. The Three Garridebs

Chapter 8-The Three Garridebs

* * *

At the Little Britain, I dangled my feet mindlessly over the dge of the bar, listening to Mycroft pace. He closed the bar today, as it was Sunday and the part of town we resided in remained dry on that particular day. My mood scarcely lightened, and a feeling of emptiness crowded my chest.

As I sat there, I realized how unappreciative I was of my father at times, how he's spoiled me to no end. Mycroft told me a number of times that if it weren't for my father, it is possible I would still be unable to walk. Instead, It was through his own stubbornness and refusal to carry me about that I am able to even hobble. And yet the last things I said to him were hateful, and the possibility of never seeing him again was a constant torment to my already racked brain. I tried to force the thought from my mind.

We remained in our vigil for virtually an hour, Mycroft stopping only once to sit for mere moments before standing again. He then turned to me, holding my hand to let me know he was near.

"Your father is fine, I know he is," he said, rather unconvincingly. "He wouldn't want for us to sit around and mope."

I scoffed at him. "You say that as if he's already—never mind; let's not think like that. I want to know what you saw."

Mycroft reached behind the bar and poured himself something to drink (most likely water due to the lack of smell) and a Nihi soda for me. Again, he was stalling. I kicked in the direction of his knees.

He already sounded exasperated as he began. "Alright, if you insist on knowing everything about this entire fiasco that I will tell you. There were grease stains on many large portions of glass and the mantelpiece."

Grease meant machinery, which narrowed the number of possible suspects and locations down. I used this to further my questioning. "Auto or industrial?"

"Most likely industrial," he pondered. "The grease left near perfect prints, so it was thick unlike auto." Mycroft downed the rest of his drink and went around the bar to clean it. I was yet to even touch my soda; my death-grip put the bottle in danger of shattering. There were two sections of the city in which factories were located.

"Footprints?" I begged.

Mycroft busied himself with tidying the bar, distraction his coping mechanism. My uncle never disclosed to me how he managed to remain calm, even under the most dire of circumstances. People wondered the same about my father as Doyle published more stories. I know first-hand though that during some moments in which Uncle John wrote about, such as the story in which "good ol' Watson" was shot, my father's normally cool and collected behavior flew out the window. With nothing else to tidy, Mycroft sauntered around again and held my hands.

"There were a number of footprints, actually. I found no less than six different types of prints on the floor, and all of them mud too. They were dark brown, though most likely red when it was still fresh." Granted, colors meant absolutely nothing to me, but that sounded familiar somehow. I implored of my uncle to continue.

"Now, I do not want this to alarm you," he prodded. Slowly, I shook my head. "I noticed a small amount of blood on the floor, almost invisible, in two different patterns." Mycroft traced my hand to illustrate. "The first was just a small spot near the mantle, more than likely a small wound quickly covered. But the second began in a large pool and dotted along the floor to the front door, like this." He tapped an arc across my hand. "It was no wonder the police didn't see it; the floor is nearly the same color."

As disconcerting as the thought was that our floor is the same color as dried blood, I plowed through my remaining questions. "Which pattern looked more fresh?"

Mycroft sighed. "The second. Michelle, if it's your father's, he put on a fight, sweetheart." His words did nothing to soothe me. Hope for my father began to diminish by the second. Suddenly, a yawn became the better of me. I asked for the time. "Nearing four in the afternoon. Doesn't John usually call you at about this time?"

The sudden realization slammed into my chest like a hammer. That was it. When Uncle John first arrived Deddy had asked how he'd gotten _red_ dirt on his shoes. And there was only one place in the city of New York that contained _red_ dirt.

"Call a cab," I ordered. "I know where Deddy is."

* * *

So yeah, I'm not gonna apologize for being late on this one. College decided to kick my ass and I've hardly had any time to do much of ANYTHING! But that's about it. I'll have the next chapter up within the week, that much I _can_ promise.


	11. The Resident Patient

Chapter 9-The Resident Patient

* * *

"_It was worth a wound; it was worth many wounds; to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask…For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain."_

_-_The Adventure of the Three Garridebs

The taxi deposited us at the corner of west 42nd Street and Industrial Park. This part of New York, the end of the city and beginning of the outskirts, contained every major industrial factory the city had to offer, all within a few square blocks. Still, the major question remained: which factory contained my father?

Mycroft began to think aloud, giving me an idea of our surroundings. "The buildings are not excessively tall, Michelle, and the alleyways are very narrow. Williams was smart in this one; he chose surroundings neither of us can navigate easily." He paused for a moment before scurrying off. "Hello, hello. What do we have here?"

I followed his voice the right, my two o'clock. He stopped me before I put a foot down.

"Don't take another step. There are ten sets of footprints headed in five different directions to throw us off. Damn it! They carried your father so I wouldn't recognize his shoe." Mycroft's exasperated voice muffled between his hands.

I suppressed the panic bubbling in my stomach. Instead, I channeled it to my thought processes. Deddy once explained, while telling me a bedtime story about a bicycle, that weight makes a marked difference in the indentation of the tire. The tread marks of a bicycle with a rider seemed deeper and wider than that of a bicycle without.

"Mycroft, do any of the tracks appear different?" I inquired, unsure of the proper words. I have always had difficult since I was young in using synonyms pertaining to sight.

"How so?"

"Since you didn't mention any stretcher, the footprints of the ones who have Deddy should look heavier or something, shouldn't they?" I began to trail off when Mycroft did not say anything.

"My God…" Whether I was actually right or not, Mycroft pulled me along by my wrist and together we set off towards seven o'clock.

* * *

After an overwhelming number of twists and turns, all of which I lost count of, my uncle and I stopped in front of the Weisman Steel Manufacturing Plant. The walls of the building felt thick and unforgiving. Sound-proof.

As it was Sunday, not a soul walked the streets. It had since been at least four hours since my father was taken, and with each hour the fear of not seeing him again became far more real. He had been gone for days at a time before, even months, but until now I had never felt so desolate without him.

We stopped in front of the main entrance so Mycroft could pick the lock. He needed absolute concentration, thus near perfect silence, so my impatience became torturous. Sometimes it is the fear of what we are unsure of, the intangible, what we do not know that drives us mad.

A small click from the door and a very relieved gasp from Mycroft alerted me back to the task at hand. The anticipation magnified, I held my breath, and in a quick motion, Mycroft tugged at the door. It remained in its place.

"Damn," he cursed. "There's a regular deadbolt. We'd have to unlock it from the inside."

I knew how that could be accomplished, and immediately I pawed at the window. The window was small, impossible for a man as large as Mycroft to fit through but perfect for "hunchbacked dwarves." As I pulled with every reserve of strength to open it, Mycroft grabbed my wrist.

"You're not going in there."

"But it's only a few feet," I retorted, angry that my eagerness and willing to do anything had been shot down. "Besides, not much can happen in the span of a few seconds either."

Mycroft pondered this for a moment before getting a firm grip on the window. He gave me some last minute instructions before picking me up and setting me on the sill. "In and out, do you understand? Do not go snooping or any of that business."

And then we were silent. The window was thankfully low to the ground, and my shoes made little noise upon impact. The smell inside was pungent with every sort of chemical, not unlike our home, but the stench along with that of sweat and stale odours became unbearable.

The wall felt just as disgusting, slick with God-knows-what and cobwebs. Grateful, I reached the door in little time. My hands groped furiously for the lock Mycroft had spoken of. There were a number of knobs I turned and jingled, but none of them opened the door. I had reached the last bolt, the lock in question, when I heard a very weak voice behind me.

"Is somebody there?"

I slammed myself against the door then, for what purpose I am still unsure. There was little heat where I stood, so I knew I was partially shadowed, but I could never know just how much. After a few silent moments, the voice tried again, fainter than before.

"Hello?"

I knew that voice, and I became so focused on it that if God himself sang to me with all his angels, I doubt I would have heard him. I certainly did not hear Mycroft calling me. Instead, I followed the voice.

"Can anyone hear me?"

The more words I heard the faster I began to hobble. When I heard the characteristic deep, wet cough that belonged only to my father, I broke out into my version of a run, calling for him as well.

Our shouts began mixing until at last, I was close enough to hear his wheezing. I walked slowly then, with my hand out-stretched, and for a moment I felt nothing. When my hand finally bumped again his skin, I nearly cried. But not for joy, only for horror.

"Michelle?" he pleaded in hardly a whisper. "Michelle, I can't see you. Are you alright?"

I was speechless. Feeling his face, large bruises covered his cheeks, a huge oozing gash lined the underside of his jaw, and his bottom lip seeped blood. Worst of all, his eyes were swollen shut.

Either water or sweat drenched his entire body and his normally slick hair (which is actually very curly before my father pomades it in the morning) was sticky and thick. I was completely enraptured: how could anyone do this in the space of a few hours?

I started tracing his arms down to his hands, mindful of the cuts and scrapes along them. His hands were bound by what felt like a single rope, interlaced with the back of the chair. It was a fisherman's knot, I could tell that much, but I could not find the beginning of the rope.

A clock buried deep within me began screaming that time was running out. We were both silent as I yanked and clawed at the rope. It hardly budged.

Down a passageway or somewhere far into the building a _clang_ erupted, freezing the both of us. My father then hissed as quickly as possible. "Michelle, there's a large drum about twenty steps to two o'clock. Go now, and whatever you hear do not make a sound. Go!"

I scurried as fast as my damned crooked legs would carry me. Footsteps, not mine, began shuffling louder and more intense with each step I took. As I nosedived into the barrel my father spoke of, a door opened, and three voices mixed with each other. One voice protested the entirety of the way.

"Whatever it is I won't do it, you'll not have a thing from me, do you hear?" I knew that voice, the same voice that calls me every day near four in the afternoon.

Uncle John.

* * *

So I've decided I'm not going to keep updating this one unless I start getting good reviews. I know that people read my story, but without reviews saying what they like or dislike, I'm not sure where to go with it. Please, if you only have a few things to say, please review. I'm trying to make this one as good as possible so with reviews I can essentially give you, the readers, what you want.


	12. The Blanched Soldier

Chapter 10-The Blanched Soldier

* * *

I directed every ounce of control in me towards not screaming for my uncle. He sounded healthy, and his voice did not falter until, I assume, he saw my father.

"Watson?" my father begged with a touch of light-heartedness, the same tone he uses when referring to my mother. Uncle John remained as speechless as I, and for a moment, nobody spoke. After some time, a thick, gruff voice broke the silence. "Well, go on. Get on with it."

"What is it you want me to do?" The fear and pity in my uncle's voice caused my heart to cry. The familiar voice of the main who answered made my spine completely flare with hate at the sound.

"His eyes; we want you to open them. Here." A heavy bag slammed to the ground as the voice died, the humor in it all too apparent. Small _clinks_ told me someone dug through the bag.

"None of these are sterile; an infection alone would kill him."

"That is exactly why you are here, Doctor. You are going to keep him alive until he tells us where the letter is. And if necessary, the brother and the daughter as well. It's a pity though; the daughter of the world's greatest minds to be such a deformed _thing_. Surely it still operates as human being in the physical sense." Geoffrey Williams laughed.

My father suddenly began screaming through a very choked and horse voice. I jumped so hard the metal of my ankle-braces clanged against the barrel, but no repercussion presented itself.

"You so much as breath on her and I'll dig your heart out with you own jaw, you bastard, I'll-"

"Temper, temper, Mr. Holmes. I suggest you bite that tongue. Now Dr. Watson, shall we get on with it or would you like for my assistant here to beat them open again?" Williams sounded more like a ringleader than anything else. Uncle John gruffly consented, and with obvious disdain he picked up the bag. He paused in his rummaging for a moment.

"At least allow me to give him something for the pain." I assume Williams denied his request. Uncle John then turned his attention to my father. "Holmes, I'm going to make two small incisions here and here. If I had a sharper scalpel this would be far quicker. Try to stay conscious, alright? Bite down. Here we go then. One, two—"

An audible pop sounded as my uncle tore open my father's skin. His muffled scream echoed within the building, endlessly repeating like a broken record. My father continued to whimper helplessly for a few seconds, and began protesting as Uncle John began the count for the other eye.

After three counts on the other, Uncle John dropped the knife, and a muffled _oompf_ suggested my father fell or fainted in some way. The gruff-voiced man ordered my uncle to wake him up again, and from there I do not think I've heard a more brother exchange between the two since.

"Holmes? Holmes, I do not have any salts or brandy with me. You need to wake up." Until then, I never heard my uncle sound more firm or compassionate at the same time.

"I'm so tired though, Watson, just let me have a bit of a rest before they come back for another session. Please my dear fellow, just a short rest." Deddy's voice began to trail off as if he fell asleep again.

"It is almost over, my friend." Uncle John tapped Deddy's face to bring back his senses. "Is there a reason you had me do this?"

Williams took a step, ever the performer. "We were getting to that, sir. Come, kneel."

Kneel? With Uncle John's bad knee he had difficult just moving up and down the staircase, let alone kneel. How could they expect him to? After some effort, it sounded as if he managed to make it to the floor.

"Now, Mr. Holmes," continued Williams, along with a familiar _click_. "The location of the letter, or watch your friend die. It is your choice really; his life means nothing to me, therefore no consequence."

Everything came together, then. My father told me that the Middle East shot its victims execution style as a form of capital punishment. Deddy even demonstrated it for me. The condemned knelt on the floor; his executioners then gave him a final word and shot the person in the back of the head. Only the victim never knew when the shot would come.

They made my father's one and only true friend surgically open his eyes, only to have him watch his friend's execution, all as a form of torture. I never once believed in my entire lifetime that such inhumanity existed in North America, but I was wrong. People turn into animalistic barbarians over the smallest of issues, in this case a single scrap of paper. And from a woman I never knew, at that.

I could not allow my family suffer any longer because of it. Deddy began screaming unintelligibly, struggling against the bindings through semi-formed words and guttural sounds. I knew this was my opportunity to create a distraction of some kind, and using as much strength as I could muster, I threw my weight against the barrel. The subsequent fall sent me into a painful and dizzying roll across the floor.

It took a moment to coordinate my bearing once climbing from the drum itself. As the phrase goes, I searched blindly for some clue as to where everyone stood; a sound, a smell, anything useful. They were as surprised as I, my father more than likely furious. The first sound I heard though was a low moan, one that sounded of defeat and anguish.

"I know where it is!" I shouted, though in truth I hadn't the slightest idea. I turned about in circles, trying to at least face my tormentors, but from the nauseating fall this only lasted a few seconds. My head began to swim, and I stopped to clear it.

"So, the mutant has a brain after all," a voice crept behind me. "Excellent! You too shall take part in the death of your family. That is, unless you tell me the location of the letter." Williams relished every second of his control, his power over the situation.

His breath began to register on the back of my neck. My mind went almost blank then as his thick fingers toyed with my hair, gently running them along my neck. My father began struggling again as Williams' hand dipped lower, surveying my chest.

"It's…you missed it in our flat," I croaked, my senses numb. My brain tried desperately to force itself out of my body, as if it would rather "observe" than participate. Williams grew impatient, and instead of caressing my neck again, he clenched his meaty fingers around my throat.

"Tell me!" he shouted. At that, Uncle John lunged toward him, but Williams was quick to react. His entire body jerked as he pulled a trigger, but not at me.

* * *

OMFG update!?!?! Anyway, I won't continue this until I get at least five reviews for this chapter (and I'm debating whether or not to count those who have already reviewed). You have been warned!


	13. Extras

Extras

* * *

Like my other finished story, I've decided to make up a page for all the random tidbits that didn't actually make it into this one, similar to the extras on a DVD, in the form of a Q&A.

* * *

Q: Why did you stop the story here? It doesn't seem finished.

A: It's not. I decided to end it at this moment because the story as a whole left me overall unsatisfied. I felt that the writing was horrible (by my standards, which I set unreasonable high), it just wasn't getting reviews; writing for this story was like pulling teeth. To write a story, you generally have to be excited about it, and for this one, I wasn't impressed with it.

* * *

Q: Are you going to finish it?

A: Yes, there's going to be a second part which finishes this. The writing for the continuation will be far more mature and worth reading.

* * *

Q: What about a prequel?

A: The prequel has been in my head since high school, so one _does_ exist. However, I'd like to finish this before I write the prequel.

* * *

Q: About the characters, what all does Michelle have?

A: Leber congenital amarosis (blindness) and cerebral palsy.

* * *

Q: What's up with the coughing? Holmes does it a lot.

A: Decades of smoking will do that to your lungs. The idea that smoking affects your lungs was not discovered until after this story takes place.

* * *

Q: How big exactly is Mycroft?

A: For some reason a few people asked me about this. Considering that it's from Michelle's perspective, and she's rather small, Mycroft is a large man. Based on the Paget illustration though, Mycroft is not as large as most people think him to be, so I always picture him to be around 200-220 pounds.

* * *

Q: How old is their cat?

A: Toby is only a few years old, maybe three or four. It's rather obvious how he got his name, but the prequel explains how Toby came about, so you'll just have to wait for that one.

* * *

Q: What's going to happen to Williams and Gregson?

A: They will be in the next one. You'll have to wait for that as well.

* * *

Q: What about Irene?

A: A rather left field question. I'm going to include her more in the next one, which is some epic foreshadowing.

* * *

Q: How different will part two be?

A: In terms of writing, very different. The characters will be the same, although Michelle will be less of a spaz. The next part takes place a year later.

* * *

Q: Anything else to add?

A: Yeah. I'm hoping the next one generates some solid reviews. As much as I appreciate hearing from people, I tend to grow tired of reviews that say "omg update!!!11!1111!!!!" I prefer reviews to be critical, ones that show where I am making mistakes and what I can improve on. I'm extremely grateful to all those who read this one, but I personally found no pleasure in writing it by the end. Hopefully the next one will be better.


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